. The Argonaut. sound asleep. Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hookSpares the next swath and all its twined flowers;And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep Steady thy laden head across a brook ; Or by a cider press, with patient look. Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours. It is a hardship not to have read Wildes AveImperatrix, Easter Day, The Burden of Itys, orThe Ballad of Reading Gaol— With slouch and swing around the ring We trod the fools parade;We did not care, we knew we were The devils own brigade—For shaven head and feet of lead Make a merry masquerade. or Kipl
. The Argonaut. sound asleep. Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hookSpares the next swath and all its twined flowers;And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep Steady thy laden head across a brook ; Or by a cider press, with patient look. Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours. It is a hardship not to have read Wildes AveImperatrix, Easter Day, The Burden of Itys, orThe Ballad of Reading Gaol— With slouch and swing around the ring We trod the fools parade;We did not care, we knew we were The devils own brigade—For shaven head and feet of lead Make a merry masquerade. or Kiplings Buy my English flowers : ye that have your own,Buy them for a brothers sake, overseas alone—Weed ye trample underfoot floods his heart ye have not heeded, O, she calls his dead to him. or of listening to the downpouring rain and not beingable to turn either the eye or the ear to LongfellowsTales of a Wayside Inn, with its vivid picture ofroadside pools, rainwashed windowr panes, and foaming. Gloria Victis. Special Mention in The. Glory of the Conquered, by Susan Glaspell. The Frederick A. Stokes Company. rivulets, contrasted to the snug shelter of the inn withits roaring fire. Patriotism is inspired by such lines as Breathes there a man with soul so deadWho never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land ?Whose heart within him neer hath burnedWhen home his footsteps he hath turned From wandering on a foreign strand ? or by When Freedom from her mountain heightUnfurled her banner to the air She tore the azure robe of night And placed the stars of glory there. I knew a farmer once who possessed the works ofall the great poets, and who was thoroughly familiarwith them. He read practically nothing else—couldrepeat the whole of Childe Harold, and was fonderof Pope than of his local paper. At work he kept meas-ure to rhymes that ran through his head. His drudgerywas lightened by mentally conning what he had read,his only hardship being that his own
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